So help me, it’s time to get serious about my Christmas card list.
I’ve got the box of cards; I’ve got the stamps and the address book arranged around me. I’ve got the TV set to Forensic Files. I’m ready to go.
Now I just have to build up the desire to address 40-some cards and envelopes.
I’ve tried to develop the desire by folding laundry, eating nachos, drinking copious amounts of Fresca, visiting my favorite blogs, and texting friends. I’ve made a grocery list. I made ham and bean soup. I did the dishes. I’ve applauded Willie’s semi-annual cleaning of the cat box.
Oddly enough, my cards still aren’t done.
This doesn’t surprise me. I can be ridiculously task-averse. Go ahead. Tell me what to do.
But deadlines. Oh, I do take a deadline seriously. The “drop-dead” date, as they say in the corporates. I’m apt to take seriously something that uses the word “dead” in the description. Seems pretty final.
And there’s no real room for negotiation on, say, a holiday card.
So here it is: I’m going to open this damn box; I’m going to use my return-address labels rather than hand-writing my return address forty-some times, even if some people think it’s tacky; I’m going to pull out my address book and figure out whose been naughty and nice. I’m going to get it done tonight.
Wait. Does that sound cocky? The naughty-and-nice bit? What is the expectation on cards, anyway? If I’ve sent you a card for several years running but never gotten one back, I’m perfectly within societal boundaries if I drop you from my list, right?
I’ve done it to myself.
Happy Seasonal Expectations, everyone!
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